


The Way to a Man's Heart

by orphan_account



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Dream Sex, Kink Meme, M/M, Sounding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-09
Updated: 2010-08-09
Packaged: 2018-02-12 01:24:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2090499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"When I said I was up for exploring our kinks, I was expecting to start with something a little, shall we say, milder?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Way to a Man's Heart

"So. Sounding," Eames says conversationally, spread-eagled on the bed as Arthur hovers over him with a foot-long, surgical steel rod clasped in one hand. "When I said I was up for exploring our kinks, I was expecting to start with something a little, shall we say, milder?"

Arthur raises an eyebrow.

"You know," Eames continues, and he's aware that his composure has slipped and he's babbling a little, though the knowledge doesn't seem to mean he can _stop_. "Blindfolds, fuzzy handcuffs. That kind of thing."

"Eames. Do I look like a fuzzy handcuffs kind of guy?"

And there's the crux. Arthur doesn't look like fuzzy handcuffs kind of guy, nor for that matter, a foot-long piece of surgical steel kind of guy. He's so bloody tight-laced and perfectly-pressed, it's impossible to tell what pushes his buttons.

But Arthur does have buttons, oh yes, and not just the ones on his waistcoat. He doesn't have to be threatening Eames with catheterisation for him to know that. You don't get into this kind of business—and stay in it—if you don't come to appreciate the steady work of research and construction, followed by the pure adrenaline thrill of a job gone right—or wrong. Sometimes it's like the world's slowest-building, most perfectly-stimulated, most abjectly terrifying orgasm. 

(And if Arthur gasps the exact same way coming up as he does coming, Eames has never had occasion to mention it.)

"Humour me for a second," Eames says. "I'm not sure I understand the... actual... what exactly are you doing with that? Exactly." He rubs the heel of his hand over his chin and mouth, stubble gritting against his palm. When will he learn that it's always the staid ones. Always.

"It's very simple," Arthur says, mattress shifting as he moves to straddle Eames' lower legs. He deftly unfastens Eames' fly and tugs out his cock, jacking it leisurely as he talks, bunching the foreskin and pulling it back in a maddening slow drag. "I'm going to take this—" He gestures with the rod like it's a conductor's baton, then rests it against the head of Eames' cock, one end nestling at the slit. "—and put it in here."

"I see. And what's in this for me? And actually, what's in it for _you_ , now that we're on the subject. I didn't have you pegged as a sa—ohhh for God's sake man, that's cold—sadist."

"Sorry," Arthur says, in a tone that makes it quite clear that he's nothing of the sort. He snaps the cap back onto the lube. "I'm not a sadist, Mister Eames."

Eames thinks any man who would squeeze lube onto his partner without the decency to warm it up first is either severely lacking manners or has a sadistic streak, and Arthur sure as hell isn't daunted by the silverware at fancy restaurants.

"This isn't going to hurt." Arthur sounds serious all of a sudden.

Eames hikes himself onto his elbows and frowns at him. "Right," he says after a moment of awkward-verging-on-uncomfortable eye contact. "Okay. I'll trust you on that."

Arthur's eyes are dark, his pupils blown wide and black. He blinks rapidly at Eames' words, and Eames thinks: _button_ , as Arthur leans up to press a quick kiss to the corner Eames' mouth.

"Thank you," he says with insufferable earnestness, but before Eames can summon something acerbic and witty to break the mood, Arthur is hefting the rod and talking, typically business-like. "You are going to have to do what I say here, Eames. No, listen. _Listen_. This isn't going to hurt if you behave, but it will if you screw around."

"You're a control freak, Arthur," Eames mutters, and at the same time realises maybe that's where Arthur gets off. Strike that, there's no 'maybe' involved here. "Let's get on with it then, shall we?"

"Don't sound too enthusiastic."

"Forgive me if I'm not entirely convinced still." He catches Arthur's eye again, makes sure his meaning is plain: I'm doing this for you.

Arthur nods, then pushes Eames flat to the bed by his shoulders. The room slides out of view, and Eames fixes his gaze on the web of hairline cracks around the light fitting. They dance about and make different patterns as he watches. "Keep still," Arthur says. "You absolutely must not move. The sound has to slide into your... into you of its own volition."

"Cock," Eames says, addressing the ceiling.

"Excuse me?"

"My cock. Into my cock. You've got your hand around it and you're about to stuff a foot of metal into it, the least you could do is give it the courtesy of calling it by its name."

Arthur looks aghast. "You don't just _stuff_ it in. Jesus, Eames."

Eames snorts out a laugh; of course Arthur ignores the dirty-talk bait in favour of nitpicking at technicalities. "Whatever you have to do, darling."

He feels Arthur tug at his trousers; he tilts his hips up until they're pulled away. His boxers follow, elastic of the waistband resting under his balls, and then Arthur's fingers rub at his hipbone, skate across his lower stomach and firmly grasp the base of his cock. For all Eames' trepidation he's been masochistically hard for a while, and wanting Arthur to do terrible things to him is perhaps something he might want to examine at some point. For now though, his concentration is on Arthur's other hand, flattened against Eames' thigh; his palms are very hot. 

"Stay still," Arthur says again, and the hand on Eames' thigh is lifted away. The skin there prickles up into goosebumps, and the sensation spreads across the rest of his body as he feels the rod probe at the slit of his cock. Arthur sounds breathy with fascination when he speaks. "I've always wanted to do this."

Eames jerks involuntarily, and Arthur snatches the rod away, grabs his hip and leans on him so hard it feels like it'll leave bruises.

"Idiot," he hisses. "What did I tell you?"

"You haven't done this before?" Eames says. His voice has gone up an octave, and that's a tad embarrassing.

"Of course not," Arthur snaps. "But I've researched it very... _very_ thoroughly. I know all the risks, which is more than be said for you, apparently. Now. Stay. Still."

"I'm sleeping with a madman."

"Aren't we all. Relax and breathe evenly for me, Eames."

Eames closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, and another. He focuses on the sensation of Arthur on his cock, the way he's teasing at the slit with fingers and tongue, the unyielding solidity of the sound as Arthur gradually feeds it into him.

"Feels strange," he murmurs. Not that strange is bad, necessarily, but it's not particularly good either; certainly not good enough to explain why it gets Arthur all hot and bothered. It's an odd pressure, pushing a slow path into his body—and now that he's stopped to _think_ about it, he's breaking out into a freezing hot sweat and shuddering all over. "Is that it?" he says, and he hopes he doesn't sound too desperate. "Can you take it out yet?"

"Not yet," Arthur replies, and Eames can hear the smile in the bastard's voice. He decides there are going to be repercussions to this. Arthur twists his fingers, somehow makes the rod _move_ and it hits something inside Eames that sends a bolt of agony right to his toes, to his fingertips, except it doesn't hurt at all, does it?

"Oh... fuck," he gasps, and tries to arch off the mattress. His mouth is watering, tongue pressed to the back of his teeth.

"Stop that," Arthur says, and pushes him down. "Behave."

Eames has a hundred and two rejoinders to being told to behave, but he'll be damned if he can remember a single one of them; the only words his brain is willing to supply are _oh fuck_ , _oh God_ and _Arthur_ , in various combinations. 

Arthur draws the sound out and lets it slide back in, over and over like a long, slow fuck. A perfectly-stimulating, abjectly terrifying fuck. On every other stroke he twitches his fingers, striking a spot that sends fractal sparks dancing on the edges of Eames' vision, and before long Eames finds himself trembling in anticipation, until one final twist of Arthur's fingers has him coming so hard it kicks him right out of their dreamspace.

Eames can't breathe for a moment, muscles locked and shaking as the aftershocks of his orgasm ripple through him. His underwear is wet and heavy, and with a groan, he finally relaxes and lets his head loll back.

"Wet dream?" Arthur says, smirking as he tugs the PASIV IV free.

Eames says something incisive and biting that isn't at all rendered into gibberish by the endorphins zinging through his body.

Arthur gives Eames a considering look, leans over to drop a quick kiss on the end of his nose. "Well, if it keeps you this quiet, I think we should do it again sometime," he says.

"Yeah," Eames says happily, already drifting. "Real life, though."

On the edges of his vision, blurring and shifting, Eames sees Arthur frown and fish his totem from his waistcoat pocket.


End file.
